Maternity
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Sister Quayle does something unbelievable and it is up to Roland and Grace to make amends.


When they heard it, they both balked. Grace had to concede that for a moment she wondered whether or not she had overreacted, but her concern was assuaged a moment later when she was all of the emotions she had momentarily felt written across Roland's face too.

"You sent her away?" he repeated, his tone of voice appalled.

Margaret Quayle stood there, an impassive look upon her face. She even shrugged her shoulders a little.

"We are not a maternity hospital," she replied, rather redundantly, "Come to that, Colonel, we are not even a civilian hospital."

"I am aware of that, Sister," he replied, through clenched teeth, or so it sounded.

"I thought it would be prudent, after the affair with Joan Livsey," she lowered her voice, as if to utter Joan's name could contaminate them all, "If we kept our distance, somewhat, from the civilian community."

"That would be the civilian community who bring us food and drink," Roland prompted her, "That would be the community your friend Soper makes a pretty penny out of, I shouldn't wonder, by distributing the "leftovers" from our stores?"

"Roland," Grace murmured warningly, giving him a pointed look. Telling Margaret how much they already suspected, but could not prove, would not help them in this matter.

He let out a sigh, running his hand over his brow. A hint of a smile crept into the corners of Margaret's mouth. Catching sight of this, it seemed, was all that was needed to spark off Roland's fury again.

"So I am, in fact, to understand that, as a junior member of staff reported to me, you turned away a heavily pregnant french woman, who said she was experiencing severe pain?" he asked her, the incredulity heavy in his tone.

Margaret at least had the good grace to incline her head a little.

"That is correct, sir."

Grace watched his face; watched the horrified disbelief welling through his features. She made a snap decision.

"Sister Quayle," she told her coldly but calmly, "Go and fetch Captain Hesketh-Thorne immediately. Then go and tell Soper to have a car ready for him, within the next ten minutes."

She turned in Roland's direction, explaining to him as well.

"If she came on foot and she's in discomfort she can't have reached the town yet. He can bring her back here."

"Yes," Roland agreed firmly, "It is our responsibility. Sister Quayle, if you would-…"

For a moment Margaret seemed to smile accommodatingly.

"I'm glad that Matron Carter has a more practical understanding of the proper care of an expectant mother than I do," she remarked cooly, still smiling, "But then, that is perfectly natural, isn't it Grace?"

But Colonel Brett was on his feet now.

"Sister Quayle, you are wasting valuable time."

"Of course, Sir."

Grace's eyes were cast towards the floor. She did not dare lift her head to see Margaret leave; she couldn't believe she had said that, she had as good as told him that-… Oh god.

Her eyes cast down, she did not realise until he was very close to her that he was standing before. Gently, he laid his hand on her arm.

"Are you alright?" he asked her.

She nodded as best she could, still not raising her head.

"I won't ask you what happened," he told her.

"Do you even need to?" she asked him, her voice a little harsh, her eyes welling with tears. She raised her head almost in defiance, not of him, exactly, but of Margaret, of the injustice and betrayal she was feeling so keenly now, "She's as good as told you everything you could want to know."

But his hand was still on her arm, resting there gently.

"There will have been more," he said simply, his voice quiet.

She did not contradict him. She gave a hearty sniff.

"Here," he passed her his handkerchief, "Compose yourself. I'm going to need you."

**…**

By the time they were both back in his office, though, they were both smiling, though exhausted.

"There's nothing quite like a birth," he remarked as she fell into the armchair by the fire, and he poured them both stiff drinks.

The woman had been found, Miles Hesketh-Thorne had driven her back to the hospital at break-neck speed, and she and her newly born daughter were presently asleep in one of the tents pitched up for visiting relatives.

"I have to say, a birth makes a nice change, for us," Grace remarked, taking a sip of her drink.

"You're not wrong," he replied, raising his own drink to his lips and draining the glass. He shook his head, "I couldn't tell you how long it is since I've seen a healthy child."

She let out a harsh breath, her eyes flashing with tears. He looked at her in concern.

"Have I spoken out of turn?" he asked her.

"No, _you _haven't," she replied, resting her face against her hand for a moment, "I'm just very tired. And, like you say, birth-… It brings out the a particular side of the emotions."

He braced his empty glass between his fingers for a few long moments, apparently examining it. She guessed, though, and she was right, that he was not considering the glass, as he appeared to be.

"Grace," he spoke softly, beginning to ask the question that she had know would come sooner or later, "I know I said I wouldn't ask-…"

"It's alright," she told him, almost a little sharply, and then, more gently, "I don't mind telling you."

He could tell, though, that in spite of what she said, the confession, any confession, would not come easily, and he proceeded with care.

"What Sister Quayle said, earlier-….?" he trailed off, his eyes fixed on her face, "Am I to take it that-…?"

"That I was pregnant? Yes. That I loved a man and was going to have his child."

He was silent for a moment.

"What happened?" he asked her.

"There was-… I didn't-… A stillbirth," she answered finally.

"Oh, Grace," he murmured gently.

There was a moment of silence.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked her.

"What would you have thought of me?" she asked, "An unmarried mother, a-…"

"I thought we were beyond all that, Grace?" he asked her gently, "I wouldn't judge you for-… that. Who am I to judge anybody?"

"I didn't want you to think less of me."

"How could I think less of you, Grace?"

She was silent.

"I love you, I'd forgive anything."

Her head snapped up and she looked him full in the face. Her eyes were full of such intense surprise that he barely knew what she'd made of his statement beyond that.

There were so many questions, so many murmurs of self-doubt that sprung into her mind; but he seemed to pre-empt them.

"I'm not saying it just to comfort you, or because I've had a drink, Grace," he told her, setting his glass down on the table, running his hands over his face.

"I told you earlier that I needed you-… Well, it's true. I _need _you, Grace Carter. I love you. Do you think anything Sister Quayle tells me about you is going to make me think you're anything other than unspeakably brave?"

He did not say any more because she had stood up and walked around his desk. He stood too, and received her as she threw herself into his arms, embracing him tightly.

"Grace," he murmured, kissing her forehead, "Grace, my darling, I love you so much."

Her hand was curled into a fist, holding tightly onto the front of his shirt.

"I love you too, Roland. So much."

His lips pressed against hers, and she responded willingly.

"When all this is over," he told her quietly, "When we never have to think about Sister Quayle again, I want to have children with you."

**End. **

**Please review if you have the time. **


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